Friday night I was out with a few of my girls and, almost like clockwork, as soon as 12am chimed in I was possessed by an insasiable craving for dancing, 90′s pop music and things covered in glitter.

The good thing about living in Brighton is that none of these things are ever more than a short walk away.

So off we headed to the Gay district of Kemptown. By the empty shot glasses, (and the fact two of my friends had already taken off and stashed their shoes) it was clear that it was going to be “one of those nights” - and before we knew it we had headed to the dancefloor, only to find ourselves smack bang in the centre of a huge crowd… each and every one of us unashamedly bouncing up and down, belting out the lyrics to One Direction.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, I felt the fingers of a small blonde girl link with mine whilst we jumped in excitement as“Livin’ On A Prayer”came on.

Obviously, this didn’t phase me in the slightest – I mean, mere moments before a gay guy I got chatting to at the bar had been attempting to braid my hair, whilst my friend explained to his partner, in detail, how to make gravy from scratch – I know, we’re wild!

What did phase me, however, was the smacker she planted on my lips just 5 minutes later.

Now, in hindsight, I’ve decided that any of the following would have been an appropriate thing to say in this situation…

“I’m sorry, I’m not actually gay” – to which she would undoubtedly have replied “OK, no problem” and we would have continued to enjoy the Bon Jovi Megamix that ensued.

“I’ve got a boyfriend – sorry”

“I have to go. No time to explain – but my country needs me. *gently touching her face*I’ll never forget you.”

OK, perhaps the last one would be a long shot, but anything would have been better than what I did say…

“Ummm, I gotta… I need to… I, erm, need a wee…”

Yes, I know. I’m a complete shit-house.

The rest of the night continued as normal… Of course, one of my friends fell down, whilst another screamed Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful” into the karaoke machine, ruining everyone’s night… but there were no more romantic liaisons.

At the end of the night we flagged down a couple of cabs, and being the only one out of the four of us who lived in the complete opposite direction I climbed into one alone..

Just as I was explaining to the driver the quickest route to my flat, I heard the slam of a passenger door…

…Someone had climbed into the taxi alongside me.

(Can you see where this is going?)

“Where are we going?” purred Miss Kissy

Oh. Fuck.

“Erm… I’m going home..”

“I know, I was thinking of joining you…”

“Errrrrm… I’m not sure my boyfriend will be too keen on that”

“Oh I’m sure I could convince him…”

She was right – I guarantee it would have been a hell of a lot easier to convince my boyfriend to have a three-way with me and a (to her credit) very pretty lesbian, than it was to convince her that I wasn’t bisexual and she wasn’t coming home with me.

It soon became obvious she was far too drunk to leave to her own devices… so, twenty minutes of driving around aimlessly with her refusing to divulge her address and £15.30 in cab fare later, I finally dropped her off at her student halls…

Brighton; “The San Francisco of England”… a place where pretty much anything and everything goes… …Where people walk their cats, drag queens are free to walked around during the day without a second glance and handlebar moustached men